


vivre libre

by vivelapluto



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-09
Updated: 2019-03-09
Packaged: 2019-11-14 14:56:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18054674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vivelapluto/pseuds/vivelapluto
Summary: the modern fight for freedom, or enjolras, humanities student in the thick of protests, movements, and elections, and grantaire, his classmate who can't seem to care less but who enjolras seems to care far too much about





	vivre libre

“ _Mon Dieu,_ you’re going to break the keyboard” Courfeyrac said, ruffling Enjolras’s hair as he walked past. From where he was, hunched over the computer, Enjolras cast a scowl in his flatmate’s direction, dragging the hand that wasn’t currently pressing the refresh button over and over through his hair in a halfhearted attempt to fix it.

“If they don’t get enough signatures the entire thing is pointless!” he replied.

“I _know,”_ Courfeyrac replied, and though Enjolras didn’t turn around to look, he knew he was probably rolling his eyes. “But you staring at it isn’t going to change anything.”

Enjolras cast another glance in his direction, pressing the refresh key yet again (more out of spite than anything else). “Yes, but we’re getting closer.”

“I’m sure it’s all thanks to the fact that you’ve spent the last—” Courfeyrac checked his watch. “— _merde._ Four hours checking on it.” Though his words were derisive, his smile was genuine as he shrugged on his coat. “I’m heading out. Important business to attend to.” He winked.

Now, it was Enjolras’s turn to roll his eyes. “‘Important business’ wouldn’t happen to be that boy from Sorbonne, would it?”

Courfeyrac huffed with a mocking indignance. “Yes, it does happen to be him; we hit it off last time, and he’s asked me out to lunch . . . can I borrow this?”

Enjolras turned to see him holding up a red jacket, having tossed his other one aside. “Fine. But _don’t lose it.”_

Courfeyrac waved a hand dismissively. “I would never!”

“Tell that to my sunglasses,” Enjolras replied.

Courfeyrac just smiled, fastening the buttons on the jacket and saying, “just try not to sit here and stare at that computer the whole time I’m out. And text me if you want something—have you eaten today?”

He didn’t wait for an answer before he was gone.

Enjolras sighed, deciding that maybe it was best he step away for a bit—he had quite the headache, and as he finally tore his eyes away from the computer screen, the rest of the flat was blurred before him.

Blinking a few times, he walked towards the kitchen, realizing that no, he hadn’t eaten today. He opened the cabinets and drawers, trying to find something. But it seemed Courfeyrac had been too busy with Sorbonne Boy last weekend to go shopping, so Enjolras settled for a bag of chips, sitting back down on the couch and taking out his phone.

He had an assignment for his civics class to complete, though his partner for the project had yet to reach out. Enjolras didn’t mind that; he wasn’t fond of the boy by any means. The only thing they had in common was their enrollment in civics and (though he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t one of the most _intriguing_ people he’d ever met) Enjolras wasn’t interested in trying to find other ways to connect. They clashed enough in class. Perhaps it was Enjolras’s own fault for always having to state his opinion, but no matter what he said, the boy— _Grantaire—_ always managed to contradict him. He wondered if the professor found it humorous to partner them up for one of the most political assignments they’d had this semester.

Conflicts aside, though, this was a project that had to be completed, regardless of Enjolras’s apparent disdain for Grantaire. So, after sending Courfeyrac a quick message asking him to bring something home from wherever he and Sorbonne Boy were (and adding a _slightly_ passive-aggressive message about having no food in the flat because _someone_ hadn’t gone out to get any), he begin to type one to Grantaire.

Simple, formal, about the project and nothing else. It should have been easy to write, should have taken even less than the text to Courfeyrac.

But as the minutes ticked by, Enjolras couldn’t seem to find the right way to phrase it.

 _Why_ was he overthinking this?

He decided it was most likely because he was still stressed about the petition. That was it. That was all.

He’d just wait for Grantaire to text _him._

With that settled, he reopened the petition. He could practically hear Courfeyrac teasing him about how obsessed he was with it, but it didn’t matter. A smile spread across his face as he saw the number had crossed into the millions. Drumming his fingers on the desk, he reached for his phone, taking a picture to show Courfeyrac.

Except there was a notification on his screen, a message from . . . Grantaire?

Enjolras frowned, opening the conversation.

His heart skipped a beat. He didn’t know why.

It was just about the project, some links to an article about the Fourth Republic he thought could work for their presentation. All as expected, really . . .

But still, there was a bright smile on his face that had nothing to do with the petition as Enjolras typed his reply.

It was at that moment that the door clicked open, and a very flustered-looking Courfeyrac swept back inside. “Enjy, I’m a _mess,_ and—” he stopped in his track as his gaze landed on Enjolras. A slow smile spread across his face. “ _Why_ do you look so happy?”

“You’re back soon,” Enjolras replied, attempting to school his features into their usual aloof expression.

“I misread the date in his text . . . Combeferre wants to get lunch tomorrow, not today. But enough about me, who are _you_ texting? Is it that boy you mentioned from linguistics?”

“Marius?” Enjolras laughed. “God, no.”

“Good. I didn’t think he was your type.” Courfeyrac replied, sitting down beside Enjolras on the couch.

“Of course he’s not. I’ve mentioned him once to you before and I think I called him ‘one of the stupidest people I’ve ever had the displeasure of meeting.’”

“That’s what I thought, but you barely ever mention anyone to me! What was I supposed to think?”

“That maybe it wasn’t about a boy?” Enjolras replied.

Courfeyrac rolled his eyes. “Please. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you smile like that. It _has_ to be a boy.”

Enjolras wasn’t sure why he lied, but the reply tumbled out. “It wasn’t. It was about the petition.”

“Of course it was. You’re no fun,” Courfeyrac pouted. He stood up, sighing yet again as he walked away.

A moment later, however, his voice floated in from the kitchen. “Well? What about the petition?”

Enjolras opened his mouth, about to reply, when another text from Grantaire appeared. He froze, all other thoughts leaving his mind.

“Enjy! Stop texting your secret boyfriend and tell me!”

A throw pillow flew through the air, hitting Courfeyrac square in the chest.

He just laughed, the sound echoing through the flat.

Enjolras tried his best to scowl at him, but for some reason, the smiled seemed to be glued to his face.

“See, _that_ is most certainly _not_ a ‘the petition is doing well’ smile.”

The last thing Enjolras would ever do was admit that someone else was right. Especially when that someone else was Courfeyrac.

But, Enjolras had to admit to himself, at least, that he absolutely was.

* * *


End file.
